


Close To Me

by TeaCub90



Series: King of The Castle [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Anxiety, Aziraphale Has OCD, Character of Faith, Crowley has EDS, Hope, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Real Events, Interval, Life-affirming, M/M, Mental Anguish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:14:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23313724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaCub90/pseuds/TeaCub90
Summary: And now there’s nothing left to do, but wait. Wait for the country to work its way out of this thing; to navigate a closed city of life. Nowhere is open; no pubs; no cinemas; hardly any restaurants except to deliver. Flatten the curve.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: King of The Castle [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1676554
Comments: 10
Kudos: 81





	Close To Me

**Author's Note:**

> This...is not the sequel I wanted to write. I had much fluffier prospects in mind but given all that's going on at the moment, wrote this instead. I know it's not the most escapist piece but I found it very cathartic to write. Self-isolation has given me a lot of time to think and my OCD has been bouncing, so again a lot of myself is in this fic.
> 
> Stay safe, stay hopeful, stay at home. We will endure.

* * *

There are no planes in the sky.

Well, that’s an exaggeration. There’s been one or two, but they’re hard to spot; the sky is clear and blue, the colour of a soft soap. It had taken an embarrassingly long time to realise why the sky was so clear. The sun is warm; the season has changed; the town is deserted.

They sit on the bench by the church, Aziraphale and Crowley and soak it all up silently without a word. The shade is cool enough but sitting in the sun is wonderful and they stay here, soak up as much vitamin D as possible, a moment’s peace while they still have it. The village green is almost deserted; there’s nobody around, save for the odd shopper – hurrying from their home and hurrying back, as though too long outside will contaminate them. R.P. Tyler comes scurrying out with his dog, looking for all the world like a man who expects a bomb is about to hit, glancing this way and that for any potential hazards in the form of other people. Aziraphale smirks, just a little, to watch them, the slightest lift of the mouth, a sad sort of thing.

Crowley had been given priority testing a few days ago; had driven them both to the hospital to visit one of the pods, Aziraphale grasping the car-ceiling with a pinched, paler expression than usual, breath coming out in short gasps, panicked and not even at Crowley’s speeding. They had both been found negative.

And now there’s nothing left to do, but wait. Wait for the country to work its way out of this thing; to navigate a closed city of life. Nowhere is open; no pubs; no cinemas; hardly any restaurants except to deliver. Flatten the curve.

Aziraphale’s hand, he realises belatedly, is shaking – shaking _hard,_ as he reaches across and lays it atop Crowley’s, who in turn grips it hard.

‘I’m scared, Crowley.’ He feels hopeless and silly even _saying_ it, as though his love is expected to do something about it; this is way beyond Crowley’s jurisdiction. It’s selfish, but Aziraphale has always been selfish; he’s always known he can rely on Crowley to help him feel better.

Except today. Except this month. Except this year, maybe. Aziraphale thinks about the numbers of the dead, still climbing and feels it, the pang of grief for them; for going like this; for their families; for the doctors and nurses trying so hard to keep everybody alive.

‘I know,’ Crowley bites his lip, looking straight ahead; squeezes that hand, one, two, three times. ‘I know, angel. I know. Hey,’ he adds, softer now, looking sideways and spotting the look on Aziraphale’s face. ‘Hey, come on, it’s alright, angel. It’s alright.’ They exchange a look across the bench and then just as easy as breathing, just as easy as it’s been to be together over the last few years, both as friends and more recently as lovers, they’re in each other’s arms, Aziraphale holding onto Crowley with all he’s worth, an embrace he’s loathe to break.

‘How’re you doing?’ Crowley asks. ‘In all this…social isolation?’ Drawing back, he looks him in the eye. ‘You feeling alright?’

Aziraphale feels his mouth twitch. ‘I don’t know, really.’ He holds onto Crowley’s hand tightly, his mouth an uncertain line; bends his mouth and kisses it.

‘You’ll be alright at all this…good hygiene practice,’ Crowley teases lightly and Aziraphale chuffs.

‘Well, when you’ve grown up with OCD and contamination fears, well – I did that and brought the t-shirt about twenty years ago.’ He smiles a little, sadly – that was one of the first indicators of his OCD, years ago, the constant handwashing that left his hands cracked and which he has long since managed (mostly, at least) in turn to crack on the head. Crowley grins, tips his head onto his shoulder; Aziraphale wraps his arms around him, holds him close once more; he’s trembling, just a little and he kisses his temple. Crowley shivers; turns his head to receive the next kiss on his lips, the pair holding onto one another almost desperately; kissing and holding and cuddling one another, Crowley’s skinny frame heaven next to Aziraphale’s admittedly chubby one and he buries his face in his love’s neck.

‘And to think,’ he sighs, ‘a week ago I was concerned about some literature Gabriel gave me.’

Crowley gives a bark of laughter – that had been a rough day. There’s no telling – or caring – precisely what Gabriel thinks of their relationship, which they haven’t attempted to keep secret; it was just a matter of time, really. But he still gives Aziraphale looks sometimes, throws jaded comments his way that aren’t precisely…prejudiced, but more eyebrow-raising; gives him random things to read that prove a trigger; that send him sprawling. It makes Aziraphale feel terrible to admit, but one of the few benefits of the current situation is that Gabriel has flown away for the foreseeable; followed advice and gone back to be with his family, taking all his sternness and his judgements with him and leaving the Oxfordshire countryside quieter, freer, of such a try-hard presence.

Aziraphale feels foolish now, thinking about such philosophical, theological, theoretical problems presented to him when there’s…all _this,_ this reality to get through, to survive. Especially when one of the most significant certainties of his life is here in his arms, one of the greatest comforts he knows. 

‘If you get lost in your head,’ Crowley mutters now, right in his ear, ‘you come and find me, alright? I’m right here next to you. You get anxious, you talk to me. Don’t hold anything back.’ He draws back, furious, protective and more than enough to make Aziraphale’s heart beat even faster; not from fear, or panic as it’s been prone to recently – but from love and he wets his lips, eyes glistening with something close to tears. Crowley knows him so very well.

‘If anything happened to you -’

‘Nothing is gonna happen to me, angel,’ Crowley murmurs patiently, _always_ patient when it comes to Aziraphale. (Well. Most of the time). ‘We’ve been tested negative, neither of us have got it, now we’ve just gotta – I don’t know – hunker down. It’ll be alright.’ He turns, kisses his cheek. ‘It’ll be alright, angel.’

‘We’ve not even been together that long,’ Aziraphale murmurs. ‘It’s not fair. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.’

‘I know. I know. But I don’t want you to worry about me, right? I’m worried about you enough as it is. Can you honestly tell me that enforced social isolation is gonna be good for your OCD?’

‘Well…’ Aziraphale shifts. He likes his own company, but he also likes going to restaurants, to St. James’ Park, to the theatre, the church, to Waitrose for the monthly ‘posh shop’ as Crowley likes to call it, driving him there in his Bentley and teasing him for being a posh boy, cane clicking against the floor, the pair of them annoying the other shoppers. The loss of all that is a terrible, terrible blow. Of course, he recognises his fortunes; he has his books, of course; he has his vinyl player; he has Crowley.

He also has a load of doubt that he’s still dealing with and with no good excuses or long walks or nice meals to distract him, all he’s got is those thoughts, bouncing about, keeping him company all day. But now, the church too has closed and Aziraphale finds himself worried about falling back on the old habits of twenty years ago; that is, calling the vicar to chase up an answer to some theological know-how. He did it once, as a child; he doesn’t want to do that again.

‘I’ve been praying a lot,’ he murmurs finally, frowning. ‘Not…compulsively. Just…normal prayers.’ He nuzzles Crowley’s hair; his cane makes to fall; he catches it with his foot as Crowley shifts his head, rests his chin on his shoulder.

‘What do you pray for?’ He never laughs at Aziraphale; despite their differences in beliefs, he has never done that, not for one single day. It makes Aziraphale fall even deeper in love with him; made such a pleasing contrast with Gabriel, who used to hang around his shoulders, making Aziraphale question everything he was, asking if he read the Bible enough, prayed enough, was generally good enough.

Sometimes, Aziraphale wonders if Crowley prays. He doubts it, but – he wonders. Sometimes. He hasn’t quite figured out how to ask, not yet.

‘You,’ he kisses Crowley’s forehead. ‘That…whatever’s going on here won’t touch you.’ This isn’t new; he’s been doing that for a while; he prays for himself and Crowley all the time, thanks God for bringing them together. ‘And for me – that I might have…understanding and wisdom in these times and try and listen to the things I have to do. And, I suppose… _guidance_ through this. For all of us.’ He rests his cheek against Crowley’s hair; it’s soft and beautifully red in the setting, noonday sun. The night is being pushed back later and later but there’s nobody out and about to enjoy it. ‘For all the medical staff and – all the families with children…everyone. That we’ll endure. For the world.’

‘Hm. It’s practically apocalyptic,’ Crowley murmurs and Aziraphale can’t disagree with that; it is and it’s beyond their control. ‘Either that, or Donna Noble didn’t turn left like she was supposed to.’

Aziraphale giggles at the _Doctor Who_ reference; kisses his temple again, the tension successfully broken. They sit in their shared silence for a moment, until the sun begins to set, until the air grows cooler; until Crowley starts to shiver. He’s always preferred the sun.

‘Right,’ he declares finally. ‘Time to leave the garden. You still got that chicken in the fridge?’ he asks finally. Aziraphale stops, thinks. ‘Haven’t frozen it, yet, no?’

‘Oh, no,’ Aziraphale smiles, curious, ‘it’s still there.’

‘Right.’ Crowley unfolds himself – stands on his cane, offers Aziraphale his hand to tug him up. ‘Come on. I’ve got some Maris Pipers that need using up – and when I say they need using up, I mean you brought them for me and I never opened them,’ Aziraphale rolls his eyes. ‘You’ve got some vegetables; I know that much. Let’s make a roast, watch a film and then spend the whole night absolutely _shagging_ the living daylights out of each other.’

‘Crowley!’ Aziraphale squeals, going red as a beetroot; gets a saucy wink in return.

‘Come on!’ he grins; widely, unrepentant. ‘If you’ve gotta go, then go with style!’ He’s manic and wonderful and absolutely beautiful and completely lovelorn all over again, Aziraphale lets himself be tugged along to the bookshop.

They clean up the place; put books away, forgotten cups of tea and cocoa, made with distraction and anxiety in mind and spend the afternoon cooking; Crowley draping himself over Aziraphale’s shoulder, the smell of chicken warm and welcoming and seasoned to their nostrils, as he cuts the carrots, kissing his neck, his shoulder, his ear, nuzzling close, shaking the potatoes with one hand. They slow-dance to Aziraphale’s records, Crowley hanging onto Aziraphale for all he’s worth, dropping his head down to fall against his shoulder, closing his eyes, his cane propped up safely against the counter.

‘Stay with me,’ Aziraphale requests, shyly, the thing he’s been mulling on but never dared voice aloud until now, as they rock in the middle of the kitchen. ‘Stay here, with me, if you like. You can have the bed and I’ll probably use this time for re-reading some of my books down below – you know how I sleep on the sofa, sometimes – so you can make yourself at home up here, and I can give you some space when you need it. Of course, you can go back to your shop sometimes, that’s perfectly fine and absolutely allowed – but wait,’ he catches up with himself; realises the truth; his own stupidity. ‘Oh, no, we – we can’t do that, can we?’

Crowley frowns at the romance being brought abruptly to a halt. ‘Why can’t we, angel?’

‘Well,’ Aziraphale grimaces. ‘Visitors have touched the books, haven’t they, and if one of them passed something on, you might get something, Crowley, and what if…?’ he leaves it open, already feels the spiral of his own anxiety churning through him like a drill through butter, pulling him to pieces, tearing him apart from the inside.

Crowley – rather rudely – snorts; leans forward, capture Aziraphale’s lips in his own.

‘Can I bring some Queen records over?’ he asks, cheeky with it. Aziraphale shakes his head; it pains him, but he can’t let Crowley in, can’t let him touch the books, can’t put him at risk.

‘Darling, you can’t -’

‘Do you really think I’m going to start reading books _now?’_ Crowley presses and that hushes Aziraphale forthwith. ‘Come on, angel, just because there’s a pandemic going? What do you take me for, a scholar?’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ Aziraphale huffs and is promptly kissed again, Crowley chuckling against his lips.

‘What do you take me for, angel? Hm? What do you take me for?’ He kisses him, over and over, playful, eyeing him over his glasses. ‘Hoping to tempt me into doing some reading, were you, you sly, cunning angel? Hoping to tempt your heathen of a boyfriend into becoming a book-lover like you, hm? Hoping to make me spout literature and poetry at a moment’s notice? Eh?’

He attempts to playfully manoeuvre Aziraphale backwards onto the sofa for a round of further kissing and promptly almost falls onto the floor, his joints sore and Aziraphale catches him; they exchange a glance and start howling with laughter; Aziraphale tugs and tugs until Crowley is atop him and their laughter peters out as they stare at each other, like the absolutely lovelorn idiots they are, for a long moment.

‘We’ll work it out,’ is all Crowley says and he kisses him tenderly as the oven timer beeps.

They enjoy their roast – do it properly with flowers from the shop (Crowley’s trying to use up his whole stock, since he’s had to close) and a candle, in the middle of the table, clear and wash up, talking and laughing, side by side.

As Aziraphale puts the last dish away, Crowley wanders up behind him again, turns him around carefully, and kisses him tenderly, wraps his arms around his neck. They’re both so tired of this reality; of thinking about the things outside they can’t control, of a hundred different ways of being and so Aziraphale takes his arm, picks up his cane with his free hand and takes him to bed, lays him carefully down on his covers – abundant and plentiful and he only really spent more time in here than he used to when Crowley started coming around, so often would he doze off downstairs – kisses him everywhere, holds his hand as the sun streams through the curtains.

‘I love you,’ he whispers.

‘I love you, angel,’ Crowley whispers back; reaches up to pull him down, wrapping his arms around his neck.

They stay all night like that and the next morning, Aziraphale brings Crowley tea in bed, spoons up behind him as they listen to the early news on the radio, holds him a little closer, a little tighter, nuzzles his ear. Twines their fingers together, keeps him close, listens to the beat of his heart.

They’ll get through this. They’re on their own side.

*


End file.
